Evolution
by newspapercabs
Summary: Inspired by Lady Quadress: write a story where Finch and Reese meet in high school; Reese is the high school quarterback in need of a tutor and Finch is the bullied nerd in need of a protector.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Don't Own._

_A/N: Fist off, I'd like to thank the wonderful Lady Q for putting her plot-bunny up for adoption. I'll take good care of it I promise. And I would like to apologize for not making Finch as victimized or as helpless as your prompt implied, but I've always imagined Finch as kind of stoic and with terrifying consequences if you fucked with him. Don't worry, he's still a victim of bullying and Reese _will_ charge to his rescue (as he always does). _

_I hope you like it!  
_

Inspired by _lady quadress_'s plot-bunny: write a story where Finch and Reese meet in high school; Reese is the high school quarterback in need of a tutor to get his grades up and Finch is the poor picked on and bullied nerd in need of a protector.

* * *

_Chapter One_

Lies made up the core of his truth and that was how the boy known as Harold Finch preferred it. He had no friends, he had no family he only had convenient contacts that did as they were told for the right amount of money.

His true identity and his past had been erased so completely that no one on earth would ever uncover it; he had already died several times, once as fifty-six year old man that had disappeared into the backcountry and was never recovered; another was burned to death in a mysterious fire. The bodies were never recovered.

It was easier now, with the birth of computers (that he had helped create, albeit from the shadows) to kill himself and to operate anonymously.

He already controlled several banks along with two growing corporations with hand-picked puppets to play CEO for him, not that they were aware of it.

So it justifiably _irked_ him when he became the most popular boy to be ridiculed by the jocks or anyone who thought themselves above him (which was just about everyone). He endured it as best he could, knowing that if he exerted any of his far-reaching power on his abusers than he might bring himself the one thing he had been running from for so long.

So he put up with it; he picked himself up every time he was thrown to the ground, bought new glasses every time they thought it would be fun to break them all the while allowing himself a few brief moments of thoughts of revenge before shelving them indefinitely never to be spoken or thought of again.

He didn't consider himself a vengeful person as his brief fits of anger were silent and would quickly pass, after all, what would change if he allowed himself to act on his anger? _Nothing_. So he stayed quiet and operated his vast, ever-growing empire from the shadows.

_This _was where he belonged, in the dark, forgotten underbelly of humanity where the illuminating light that would chase his lies and secrets out into the open, could never reach him.

X.

"Harold," the voice of his mathematics teacher halted his exit from the classroom. He looked back at the aging woman, his face impassive.

"Yes Mrs. Fredrick?" He inquired politely; out of all his teachers he rather liked her. He would ensure that when she retired, she and her husband would have enough money to live on comfortably without any uncomfortable questions.

She smiled at him apologetically and Harold knew he wasn't going to like this. "Actually I—or rather the football coach has a request."

If she expected his expression to change she was vastly disappointed as he merely blinked at her.

"What are they requesting?"

"They need a tutor for John Reese, their star quarterback," she explained. "He's close to failing my class."

The explanation was unneeded; the football team wouldn't have wanted him anywhere near their players unless he had something to offer them. He didn't have a problem helping the player earn his marks back, so long as he was compensated him for his time.

Brushing away his internal dialogue, he returned his attention to Mrs. Fredrick who waited patiently for his answer.

"I'll do it," he said blandly, blind to the approving smile she threw in his direction. Mr. Reese would be a helpful asset in stopping his little _inconveniences_ in the future and of course he could always threaten to drop Reese if the football team failed to heel.

X.

They're first session took place on a Saturday afternoon at the public library; his first rule: he would _always_ dictate when and where they meet, no questions asked.

Harold unsurprisingly arrived first, taking over the reference section of the library; glancing at his watch he duly noted that Mr. Reese still had fifteen minutes before he was late. Glancing at the door and seeing no one lingering on the steps or hurrying up them, he pulled out his well-worn book, _Darwin's Finches_, deciding he would at least have twenty minutes before the jock deigned to show up.

Not five minutes later he felt his neck prickle as he felt someone's eyes on him; he had always had a knack for knowing when he was being watched or followed.

"Interesting book?" The deep voice of Mr. Reese next to his ear made him flinch, jerking away from the unfamiliar presence.

"Mr. Reese," he said dryly, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall, "you're early."

A teasing, almost playful smile found its way on the quarterback's lips. "Well, I didn't want to keep you waiting, _Harold_."

"You can call me Mr. Finch," he corrected coldly, putting away his book and pulling out the needed mathematical text.

Reese seemed almost taken aback from his icy tone and Harold almost felt bad for snapping at him; it was only a name after all, not even his real name, but it would be better for both of them if they simply kept it professional.

Connections to people were useless to him. The world thought he was dead after all.

* * *

The first couple of days John felt that he was constantly stepping on landmines, blowing up any successful chance he'd have of at least making Harold—_Finch_ more comfortable around him. But every inquiry he had made, in hopes of getting to know the small, guarded teen had been met with nothing but suspicion, as if every friendly word that slipped past his tongue was the equivalent of Lucifer's tempting offer of the forbidden fruit.

It was two days later he found out why Finch had such an aversion to him and it made his stomach quail in guilt. He didn't tolerate bullying on the best of days, whether it was physical or verbal so when he found his own teammates throwing Finch against the nearest locker, jeering and laughing at the poor boy's small size, John saw red.

In a move that made him revered as the Eagle's quarterback he easily pulled the nearest guy (a reserve) off Finch and into the nearest wall before placing himself between his tutor and the running back Simmons.

"Reese," Simmons tried to nonchalant, but failed to stop his trembling voice. He knew Reese's tolerance for bullying, which was too say _none_. Now how to spin this without getting their asses handed to them.

"Simmons," Reese said coldly, his eyes icy and focused. He glanced briefly to behind him to reassure himself that Finch wasn't hurt too badly. "Leave," a part of him wanted to put Simmons in the ground for hurting anyone, especially Finch who didn't even deserve it (not that anyone ever did), but Finch was more important that beating the shit out of the two of them.

The two boys didn't even think twice before turning and running out with their tails between their legs. Letting out a conflicted sigh as he watched them disappear down the hall before turning around to face Finch who was busy collecting his backpack.

Sharp, pale-blue eyes met his and John saw something akin to confusion clouding his features as if he were trying to figure out what angle John could possibly be working. He bit back a sigh, the paranoid teen probably was.

Pushing back the annoyance, he offered his hand to help Finch up. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine Mr. Reese," Finch replied curtly, ignoring the proffered hand. "Thank you for your assistance."

"What'd you expect me to do?" John asked, following after him as he headed down the hall, "Just ignore what was happening?"

Finch paused, turning to glance back at him and John felt something in his chest crack when he saw a bitter, knowing smile flash onto his lips before disappearing a second later. "Yes," he said matter-of-factly, "it does seem to be the status quo these days, at any rate."

And before he could come up with anything to say in response the guarded teen had disappeared around a corner, leaving John alone in the hallway.

X.

"Hello Finch," he greeted casually, setting down one sencha green tea next to the teen who was writing something illegible in a battered notebook.

"No thanks, I don't drink coffee," Finch said without looking up.

John felt a smirk lift the corners of his lips, "Sencha green tea one sugar." It had taken him two weeks to find this little tidbit of information on his tutor and it had taken a lot more effort than he had thought it would. The teen had a knack for knowing when he was being followed, even when John had tried to blend into the crowded high school hallways.

All he had to say was, thank god the lunch room was in a confined area and that they shared the same lunch block.

John counted it as a victory regardless when he saw amusement chase across Finch's eyes like lightning. His lips twitched and John felt something warm coil around his heart.

"You've been paying attention." Finch pulled the text out, gesturing for Reese to sit down across from him.

"Relax Finch," he teased gently," its just tea, I haven't guessed your favorite color yet."

Finch quirked an eyebrow at him before pointing to one of the troublesome problems that he just couldn't seem to wrap his mind around. "Complete this number."

Exaggerating a groan he got to work, but a felt a smile worm its way across his lips regardless of the problem presented before him.

* * *

As the days blended into weeks Harold found himself _enjoying_ Jo—Reese's company more and more. It was becoming a problem almost like an addiction; at one point he had almost sought out Reese's company during lunch, only to brusquely snap himself out of it.

What was wrong with him? He had never had a problem with his solitude before, had craved actually. People had always been a mystery to him; of course he knew how to use them to get what he wanted, but the desire to become close to a single person?

That left him vulnerable. Open to attacks; he could never risk it.

His—whatever he had with Mr. Reese would have to end. It was for the good of both parties really; besides, Reese deserved better than him anyway.

At least that was what Finch told himself. It was just another necessary sacrifice that had to be made. Right now, the pain was sharp and constant, but that too would eventually fade as would his memory of those who might've remembered him.

* * *

_A/N: Ok, we'll see how this turned out. I'm still deciding on where I'm going with this so updates will be slow. I hope Lady Q enjoys my attempt, I know I'm having fun writing it!_

_Please review!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Don't own._

_A/N: Sorry for how short it is. The next chapter will be longer, I promise.  
_

* * *

_Chapter Two_

Reese had always been the "lone wolf" sort, not that he shunned human contact, but he would much rather do things his own way and follow his own rules and if people didn't like that, well they would learn to deal with it soon enough. The most recent example of his autonomous nature was unsettling the entire school, more pacifically his teammates.

They had wrongly assumed that if they had continued to pressure him about leaving Finch in their "care" then their star player would eventually give in and everything would go back to the status quo. They never anticipated the lengths Reese would go to protect his strange friendship with the freak.

Reese, in response, had grown unusually short-tempered with them, only putting up with his teammates during practice and even then it was only business. The familiar camaraderie they had once shared had been broken; Reese had never been the type to forgive nor to forget.

X.

Much to the school's population (mostly girls) were properly horrified and discomforted when John had begun to actively seek out the company of Harold Finch, who was still as prickly as ever, responding to John's comments with polite, but barbed words. The school couldn't understand it; why would someone as popular as John put up with Finch's less than enthusiastic company.

John, however, didn't pay much attention to the repercussions of his unorthodox decisions; the rigid structure and hierarchy of high school had never meant much to him to begin with. He did as he pleased, regardless of what others thought.

X.

"Good morning Finch," he greeted, waiting for his tutor to gather his books. He still wasn't allowed to call the prickly teen by his first name without receiving a blank almost scolding stare.

"Mr. Reese," Finch returned politely, pulling his backpack over one shoulder as he secured his locker. "I trust you're ready for today's test."

For a brief second panic stilled his heart before his mind kick-started into gear as he remembered the math test they studied for yesterday. His expression smoothed into a confident smile, "Of course. Thanks to you."

Finch threw him an unfathomable look over his wire-framed glasses. "Have a nice day Mr. Reese," he said politely, as he slipped into his classroom, blatantly ignoring John's attempt to thank him.

John, far from being offended, merely rolled his eyes at the teen's brusque nature; he had become far too used to the rough brush off.

* * *

Harold's mind was not as sharp as it usually was, not that anyone noticed his minor slips. He was unfortunately distracted; despite his strict reprimands his mind would still find ways to drift off towards Reese. He kept wondering how the football star had faired on his test; he told himself that he only wanted to know to simply see if he had managed to teach the athlete anything.

If Reese had been worth the time he had spent on him. That sounded better to Finch, it was easier if he kept thinking of Mr. Reese as a statistic, an untested theory rather than his charming classmate that seemed to have made it his personal mission in life to _befriend_ him.

No, it was best to keep everyone at a distance. That way, his chances of being hurt would be astronomical.

X.

As per usual, the easy curriculum of high school flew by for Finch and soon enough the loud, anticipated bell announced the end of another day.

Finch allowed the herd of students to clamor ungracefully through the door, pushing, shoving and yelling at each other as if those few seconds ahead would really matter in the long run. He followed behind the massive exodus of students as their cacophony of voices echoed in the brightly lit halls.

As he entered the outdoor hallways that housed the thousands of lockers he felt his neck prickle in the now familiar sensation of being watched.

"Mr. Reese," he heard Reese curse at being so quickly found out before he heard the now familiar footfalls of the athlete.

"How do you always know when someone's watching you?" Reese asked, sounding torn between exasperation and amusement.

"How did you fair on your test?" Finch asked, avoiding the pointed question.

He heard Reese sigh at his verbal evasion, but answered nonetheless, "I think I did pretty well. I understood everything at least, so that's something."

Finch hummed in acknowledgement, placing his books away.

"So, do you have anything planned for the weekend?" The seemingly nonchalant question jerked Finch out of his comforting calculations.

He turned to look at Reese, blinking at him owlishly at the absurd question. "I beg your pardon?"

Amusement seemed to tug at the corners of Reese's lips. "I asked you if you were busy this weekend," he repeated.

Finch frowned at him; a dozen different plots to hurt or humiliate him flashed through his mind—that could be the only reason Reese could be asking _him_ such a ridiculous question.

"Why?" He asked suspiciously. He felt something in his chest hurt at the thought of Reese tricking him, of betraying him. But was it really a betrayal? They weren't even friends, just forced acquaintances. There was no reason for Reese to choose him over his team, but still the thought _hurt_.

Reese seemed startled at the deep suspicion lacing his voice, but Finch easily passed it off as disappointment for a failed attempt at his blatant trickery.

"Well, I thought we could hang out," Reese seemed almost nervous as he spoke, but Finch brushed it off, only deciding to look for the lies that didn't exist, "Central Park is nice this time of year."

Harold closed his eyes as he willed the pain in his chest to disappear; Reese _wasn't _his friend, so this shouldn't hurt as much as it did. He had thought Reese was different, but he'd been wrong before.

"Nice try Mr. Reese," he said, his voice turning cold.

Confusion shadowed Reese's features, darkening his iron-gray eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't need to pretend anymore, Mr. Reese," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, even as heart ached. "I don't know what you and your teammates are planning, but I'm not as gullible as you'd like to believe."

Hurt, betrayal and shock bled into Jo—_Reese's_ eyes and Harold had too look away to keep from apologizing, but this was necessary. He didn't exactly relish the idea of being used as a personal punching bag.

"Harold, you don't mean—I would _never_—"

"Good-bye, Mr. Reese," he said abruptly, cutting him off before John could convince him this wasn't a cruel prank and securing his backpack, easily disappeared into the crowded hallway, leaving John starring after him.

* * *

As he watched the small teen disappear from view, the conflicted emotions still remained; the most obvious one was pain, the stinging ache of betrayal. How could Harold possibly think he would do something like that? Hadn't he proved to him that he was different? He had stopped Simmons and had distanced himself from his teammates in order to protect Finch, to become closer to him.

Reese sighed, feeling the sting of betrayal slowly ease as he sifted through various theories for Harold's behavior (one of his secret past-times); Finch had already proven how paranoid he was, it was obvious when he read hidden meanings into everyday phrases that were usually tossed around by friends.

Kindness was treated with suspicion or grudging acceptance if it was offered by a teacher. John had suspected past abuse and had tried to look for any tale-tell signs, like bruising around the wrists, but of course with his three-piece suit (what kind of teenager wore a suit willingly? Much less to school) it was nigh impossible to see anything beyond his small, pale hands.

He knew that if he had probed any further, Finch would've thrown up a verbal defense as damaging as barbwire and as impenetrable as the CIA's undisclosed headquarters.

Sighing he looked off into the direction Harold had disappeared, determination taking root over the hurt. He had never been one to back off from a challenge and something inside him urged him to pursue the secretive teen whether Finch liked it or not.

A familiar smile crept its way back on Reese's lips, his iron-gray eyes alight with a renewed purpose. "Sorry Harold, but you're not getting away from me that easy."

* * *

_Please review!_

_A/N: And as usual, if you see any mistakes, please alert me and I'll fix them.  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: _Still don't own.

_Summary: _Inspired by _lady quadress_'s plot-bunny: write a story where Finch and Reese meet in high school; Reese is the high school quarterback in need of a tutor to get his grades up and Finch is the poor picked on and bullied nerd in need of a protector.

_A/N: _Dear god, this was like pulling teeth to get out, literally. I swear my plot-bunnies love to give me ideas and then run away two or three chapters in. I need to find a cage for these fuckers.

* * *

_Chapter Three_

Finch had been avoiding Reese all week, resolutely ignoring the pressure of Reese's eyes following him through the hallways, only disappearing during class. It had taken all of Finch's skill and resourcefulness to dodge the confrontation that was slowly creeping closer with every bell of dismissal. His stomach was in tight, nervous knots as he eyed the ticking clock with trepidation, knowing that once school let out he would be obligated to head to the library and help the jock study for the upcoming test in two weeks time and help him sort out his homework.

Finch considered skipping out, but dismissed it almost immediately; the coach and teachers would try and get involved if he deviated from his schedule and began to openly avoiding Reese and the undue attention of any authority figure was not something he wanted to deal with at the moment. He could of course, terminate his identity if need be, but he'd rather avoid that tangled mess until after the obligatory graduation, allowing his face and memory to fade from the minds of his peers. (From _Reese's_ mind).

But he had a feeling that Reese wasn't about to let him go so easily.

* * *

Finally, _finally_ his class let out, allowing Reese to bolt out of the door and hurry to the library. He wasn't about to give Harold any excuse to leave, hanging onto the feeble hope that the reclusive teenager would still come and not just disappear for good; if it had been anyone else he would've thought it strange to feel so protective—_possessive_ of someone, despite only knowing them a few weeks, but with Harold it only felt natural, _right_ to feel this way.

Without the odd, prickly, reclusive teen beside him it was as if he was irrevocably unbalanced and out of place, like a compass that had suddenly lost its ability to point true north.

His heart was pounding in his throat by the time he reached the library, his long, determined strides taking him to the familiar niche of the reference section. The familiar, short form was already in his usual spot hunched over a thick, weathered book that looked to be well-loved with its worn pages and faded cover.

Something in Reese's chest loosened at the sight of him; the deep, aching throb that had been pounding from beneath his ribcage settled into a comforting beat as some part of himself that was still raw and untrained reassured him that Finch was fine and that he had _come_, despite everything he had still showed up.

The coil in his chest gave way. He could breathe again.

* * *

Finch licked his lips, studiously ignoring the knots his intestines were twisting themselves into as Jo—_Reese_ stopped behind him just out of his peripheral vision. Allowing himself a deep breath to soothe his nerves, forcing himself to think of this as he would one of his business meetings; only pertinent information is allowed, small talk and probing questions are easily deflected, let no one know you're trembling on the inside.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Reese," he said finally, surprising them both when he decided speak first, to fracture the thickening silence that had fallen between them. His voice was indifferent, almost robotic any emotional inflection absent from his dry words.

Reese stepped closer and Finch couldn't help but stiffen as the football player took a seat next to him, watching him with those damn, keen eyes of his, his handsome face pulled into a sorrowful grimace, his brow pinched as he looked at him.

Finch looked away, feeling his heart twist even as he tried to convince himself that he had only been protecting himself, that Reese, handsome, popular _John Reese_ couldn't have possibly sought out his company solely for _him_. There had to have been some kind of motivation behind it; of course this would've been easier to believe if he could just _find_ the reason then maybe he could return to his quiet solitude and bury his memories, callous his heart to these troublesome emotions that threatened to compromise his reason—

"I wasn't going to hurt you Harold," Reese said quietly interrupting his internal, one-sided argument, his voice clipped and bruised with pain. "Haven't I proven that already?"

Finch felt himself involuntarily flinch at the broken, half-hearted accusation. He had, Finch admitted reluctantly, over and over again Reese had proved himself to be trustworthy; ignoring the confused if not spiteful glares of their classmates, their cruel whisperings as they past in the hallways and of course his teammates. He had done what only the truly brave could do, he stood up to his friends and had defended someone who, back then (and in more ways than one, still is) had only been a stranger, but despite that Reese had still come charging to his rescue.

Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, trying to soothe his frayed nerves before allowing merely a fraction of the truth to fall from his lips and into the glaring spotlight of the surface without any shadows to distort it, "Trust isn't something I come by very easily; I have my reasons."

A thoughtful frown creased Reese's forehead and a shadow seemed to find its way into his steel-gray eyes and Harold suddenly ached to make it disappear.

"Who hurt you?" The question was asked calmly, but the underlying anger burned through his words.

A shadow of a smile flickered through his closed expression, his pale, lightning-blue eyes meeting Reese's burning storm-gray ones. His lips remained sealed however; he had left his past behind, deleted and willfully forgotten, there was no reason to bring any of it up again. Let the sleeping dogs lie, as it were; there was no need to unearth the broken, grinning skeletons haunting his proverbial closet.

* * *

Silence answered his question, but a part of Reese hadn't really expected anything else, but that didn't stop the bitter taste of disappointment coiling heavy in his chest. He sighed, allowing the teen to have his secrets.

"I _won't_ hurt you," he repeated, looking Finch in the eye, "if nothing else, believe _that_."

He watched Harold's eyes turn wary; almost as if he were the tiger asking the small, unassuming finch to perch itself in his mighty jaws and trust the great predator not to crush it.

"All right," Finch said softly, the whispered words almost lost to the whirring air condition above them, "I'll _trust_ you," the word was spoken hesitantly, as if he were trying out a foreign word.

Reese fought the stupid grin trying to fight for dominance on his face, thinking it would probably be taken the wrong way at this point, but couldn't help the light, warm feeling flooding his body, making his stomach clench and tingle with excitement, like a child who'd just found out that the gift that they had dreamed of had finally arrived.

His mouth quivered into a half-smile and his eyes _glowed_ as he watched Finch suddenly turn away, his face burning with heat as he opened his math book to the desired page.

"Thank you," he whispered softly.

His heart grew lighter when he saw Finch's lips quirk into a fleeting smile to.

* * *

Friendship, Finch decided, came with a lot of commitments he thought wryly as he sat, unnoticed in the bleachers, his pale-blue eyes watching the uniformed players race across the field, plowing into each other in an effort to catch and maintain the rubber ball they kicked and threw across the field. They were down to the last few minutes, but to Finch it seemed to take forever, finding no interest in the brutal sport; he understood the gist of it to be sure, but the reason behind it, why most people and it seemed most of the country coveted it so much, he just couldn't seem to wrap his head around.

The only aspect of the sport he enjoyed was watching Reese, baffling his opponents with his speed and agility. It was like watching art in motion, every motion, every turn, dodge and feint was smooth as liquid, his opponents grappling hands finding nothing but air as he raced past them, ball in hand, nothing but a blur of color out on the field.

He was amazing to watch, Finch conceded grudgingly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks unwontedly as his eyes automatically found Reese running the ball, outmaneuvering the opposing team with cat-like grace, outshining all of the other players on the field; the people beside him rose to their feet in a deafening cheer as the scoreboard lit up with the final tally, announcing them the victors over their famed rival.

Willing the unwelcome blush away, he pulled away from the crowd, intent on leaving; to be so willingly exposed left him feeling vulnerable and out-of-place. The shadows were not deep enough to hide him here; he had already received odd looks from his fellow students and each probing gaze sent a fissure of anxiety down his spine. He was being _remembered_ when all he wanted to do was to be forgotten.

"Harold," the loud cry of his name made him internally twitch, of course his expression remained as bland and as unassuming as ever. He watched Reese pull himself away from his teammates and his clingy fans, all intent on congratulating him for a job well-done, despite all the plays being a team effort.

"Mr. Reese," he responded dryly.

"_John_," he corrected frowning.

"John," he repeated, barely stopping the grimace at such familiarity. Honestly, what was he thinking? He wasn't staying here forever, this identity would be dead, _gone_ in another eight months and where would that leave Reese? He barely restrained a sigh, his lips pulled into a thin, disapproving line; this wasn't going to end well for _any_ of them.

"Harold?" The blatant concern that rolled through his proxy name made his heart twist with guilt. Funny, he had never had that problem before. "Is something wrong?"

He looked up, forcing a soft, reassuring smile onto his lips, "No," he lied. _Everything _was wrong.

* * *

John frowned at him, something felt _off_, like he was hiding some terrible secret behind that unassuming face and soft smile, but he knew that any attempt to get Harold to open up would put shadows back in those eyes, the stinging ache of doubt and suspicion whispering behind every word he spoke, looking for lies in blatant truths. So Reese swallowed his questions and accepted the white lie with a relieved smile.

"Do you want me to drive you home?" He knew better than to ask Harold to stay for the after-party, in all honesty he had been surprised to see the small teen sitting in the bleachers, looking wholly uninterested in the game, but he had come nonetheless. It had made John's heart swell with affection, had made him play harder; he should've been concerned that he was acting like some love-struck fool, but it was Finch and Finch was _special_.

Harold gave him one of those wide-eyed, considering looks and he watched the teen forcibly chase the suspicion from his eyes. "Its fine," he said, "besides, don't you have an after-party to attend? We wouldn't want you to be late." The sarcasm was both biting and playful, absent of any bitterness that Reese was well-accustomed to with the jabs at his popularity.

He smirked, "I'm sure they'll survive without me for an hour."

An amused smile quirked at the edges of his lips, "You don't know where I live, Mr. Reese."

John shrugged, knowing better than to teasingly ask for directions, if he didn't want the teen's paranoia to return full-force. "Then we'll just drive around town. I'm sure there's something here to keep us occupied."

A brief flicker of surprise flashed behind those eyes before a wave of relief seemed to soften the teen's prickly exterior.

Reese felt something like pride curl heavy and warm in his chest as a new layer trust was carefully laid out between them, a hesitant foundation in their wary friendship.

Finch looked up, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. "If you're sure your friends can survive without you," the dryly delivered remark almost hid the wavering undercurrent of hesitation that trembled beneath his softly-spoken words.

"I'm sure," he said confidently, not sparing a glance behind him, to where his teammates were hooking up with their girlfriends or willing flings, all of them heading off to the un-chaperoned after-party where the alcohol would surely be flowing without reserve. _I'd much rather spend the rest of the night with you anyway,_ he thought, careful not to say the words aloud, fore that would surely scare Finch away. Spook him into flight, so much like the bird he was named after.

* * *

Easy silence settled over them as the headlights flooded the road with light, highlighting the yellow and white lines that raced by in a blur of color; the moon hung swollen and full at her peak, accenting the dancing shadows beneath her silver glow, the white burn of the stars wheeling overhead, pinpricks of light within the dark void of space.

The radio was silent, even the undertone of white noise was absent. Harold had prepared himself for the onslaught of questions once they had been enclosed within the relative privacy of Reese's vehicle, but only companionable silence had fallen between them, punctuated by wandering eyes and shy, awkward smiles, both unsure of what to say.

But it felt _nice_. He had felt the grip around his heart loosen when he had unintentionally prompted Reese to follow up his dry response with the predicated question that so many others would've asked without thought, but Re—_John_ hadn't, instead inviting him on a drive with no destination, with no end in mind.

It was like a warm, heavy feeling had suddenly wrapped itself around him, it made him feel safe, _secure_; something he had thought he had lost so many years ago before he had first learned the meaning of true pain and heartbreak and loss.

Was _this_ what friendship felt like? The warmth, the safety, the _knowing_ that tomorrow R—_John_ was still going to be here and still accept him without reservation, asking for no more than he was willing to give. Harold drew a sharp breath, swallowing thickly as he quickly turned to look out the window, but blind to passing the scenery, draped in shadows and the moons silver light.

Never before had anyone ever offered anything to him without wanting something in return. There was no friendship, no loyalty, only favors to be bought and paid; there was none of this softness, none of this sincerity. For so long Harold had only seen the world with its sharp edges and politely veiled lies, for so long he had lived in the darkness where the briefest moment of weakness, of compassion could mean losing _everything_.

With John, he felt _safe_ as if none of the searching; reaching shadows that he had both embrace and fought off for so long could no longer reach him.

"Thank you," he whispered, relieved when his voice came out steady.

He saw John's lips curl into a warm smile in the window's reflection and felt the small tingle of heat creep into his cheeks, "Your welcome," he said softly, as if he knew exactly what Harold was thanking him for.

And if Finch's eyes shined a bit more than usual, no one mentioned it.

* * *

_Please Review._

__A/N: As usual, please point out any grammatical errors you see and I'll gladly fix them.


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